


Shame

by BabyGecko



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, One Shot, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyGecko/pseuds/BabyGecko
Summary: "They were an odd pair, the two of them. He, a washed up gang leader of thirty two, her, a demure daughter of rich socialites at seventeen."FP Jones II falls in love with a teenager and hates himself for it.





	Shame

**Author's Note:**

> FP Jones II falls in love with a teenager and hates himself for it. Mildly inspired by The Red Ribbon fairytale.  
> Note: FP is divorced. Further notes are at the end.

A soft cream shawl caressed her face the first time he sees her. Eyes lined perfectly, lips a lush crimson; it was as though she’d stepped right out of a film classic. Beneath the shawl, a thin red ribbon had been tied around her neck, secured with a delicate bow.

He’d asked her, once, while his tongue traced the line of her jaw as she gasped from the sensation, why she wore it. She’s smiled down at him, eyes heavy and filled with nothing but sweet adoration for him. He knew he didn’t deserve any ounce of that affection. “Forsythe...” she had breathed in his ear, making his skin prickle alive with raw desire. “It was an eleventh birthday gift from my parents. They told me to give it my own meaning, it’s own purpose. So I told them that I would always wear it, and to only take it off when I felt the time was right. So for know, it stays.”

He wasn’t sure what “when the time was right” meant, but, then again, she confessed that she didn’t either. All she knew was that she would know that time was when it came.

xxxx

They were an odd pair, the two of them. He, a washed up gang leader of thirty two, her, a demure daughter of rich socialites at seventeen. God knew that in every single moment of their summer together, he hated himself, loathed himself for his affection towards her, his mind constantly spitting insults and snide reminders of how taboo their affair was. And yet, although he had tried, heaven knows how may times he tried to pull away, he would always find himself seeking solace within her loving company. 

Their first conversation burned bright and painful in his mind. Those words of hers, always so delicately laced with honey, but not without the usual accompaniment of a coy smile. She had said something, he’d snorted. He’d retorted with something that he’d hoped sounded like a warning to stay away, and she had simply laughed. Beautiful, beautiful pearls of laughter, that chimed in his ears. He should never been allowed to hear them, should have never been allowed anywhere near her to even fathom what her laughter sounded like. Angels don’t mix with demons. Yet, she always gave her joy freely. 

He hadn’t known her true age for their first few meetings. She never lied, it was just that it was never brought up. Her presence just radiated with authority and wisdom beyond her years, so that he thought she was at least in her mid-twenties. Although, every time he thought back to that, he chided himself harshly for making it seem as though he was excusing his behaviour. It wasn’t until she causally mentioned her attendance to college for that fall that the sick reality of their relationship came to light. Clearly not enough to keep them away from each other, as would’ve been the wise option. The right fucking option.

xxxx

She had been the one to kiss him first. They both knew he would never dare to, in fear that he was polluting the only pure part of creation left on the God forsaken earth. Those lips so innocent that it was practically sinful to have them brush against his, to be tainted by his own hellish poison. The affect was electrifying.  
“You didn’t pull away,” she had murmured against his lips. “Why didn’t you pull away?”  
“I should’ve.”  
“You should’ve,” she agreed. But neither one of them refrained themselves from stealing another grievously forbidden kiss. 

xxxx

They only had one summer together. Most of FP was relieved that time would force the two of them apart before anything got serious, the smaller, shameful part of him longing that their time together would never end. She shared those thoughts with him, he knew, as they discussed their relationship one night tangled in each other’s arms. They both knew that they could never last, not as they were, so they relished the time they had together, all the while knowing that at the end of summer, when she would leave just as abruptly as she had arrived, would signal their end. 

They had had this discussion fully clothed – FP had outright refused to bed someone underage, to which she gave him one of her sweet smiles, and kissed his cheek. Because she understood why. She wasn’t eighteen. She didn’t stamp her feet and demand whatever she wanted like a child. And he refused to act upon, refused to allow himself succumb to the filthy, selfish wants of his body. She listened and thought, and he listened and thought, and they both knew the impending truth of the matter. This can’t last. 

Her parents, and in turn, herself, had come into town to secure business with the Blossoms. They would only be staying for three months. In the fall, she had a place at a highly respected college, she had confided, and was expected to excel there. He didn’t have a doubt in his mind that she would, he had assured her, kissing those crimson lips of hers softly, trying to convey to her his pride and love for her with his affection, where words failed him. Words always failed him when they mattered the most.

xxxx

The fact that he didn’t deserve any second of her presence was undeniable. It was simple; it was blatantly obvious. He had told her such, hoping that maybe she would heed his word, and every single other notion of common sense, and pursue someone else. He was a divorced, alcoholic fuck up of a man who had most definitely brushed against criminal activity for Christ’s sake. But she had just tenderly kissed his temple, and told him that she was aware. She had made her choice. She had chosen him, for as long as she could have him. Never naïve as to overlook all the demons within him and his hellish lifestyle, her eyesight was never so rose-tinted as to proclaim that she didn’t care about the bad as well as the good and she still loved him despite it. No. It didn’t need to be said. She accepted him. She was clear-cut and blissfully uncomplicated in that way. She knew she loved him, and for her, for that single summer, that was enough for her. For some bizarre reason, just his presence satisfied her. Which, in turn, only made her more dear to him.

xxxx

“Is it true then?” His son faced him in his trailer, furious. He deserved that. “That you’re fucking a teenager?” 

“No! No,” he exclaimed, clenching his fist tightly. Was that what people were saying? He waned to be surprised, angry at those accusations, but ultimately he knew better. Those who knew him knew that he was no stranger to sloppy moments of hot, primal and animalistic fits of satisfaction, with whoever was seeking the same. He could only imagine how they would view his situation. The sly old dog, FP Jones, devilishly luring in a touch of innocence with promises of desire, only to use, ruin, and throw away. He brought his fist to his lips.

“Jug...” He felt his word corrode his throat as his son looked at him with disgust. Only thirteen, although his youth didn’t prevent him from expressing enough cunning and realistic thinking to rival his old man. Nor, as it seemed, give him any cleaner a mouth. It was almost like the role of father and son had been reversed. He deserved that look of disgust. “I ain’t...I ain’t been fuckin’ her,” he finished quietly. 

“Oh, so, it’s platonic, then?” Jughead had asked, mockingly, fully aware that that wasn’t the case. 

He had shook his head slowly. “I ain’t never said it was, neither.” He took a breath, her image glowing beautifully in his mind, as he tried to hold on to her purity within his pestilent mind. 

“I really care about her, Jug.” Even now he was too much of a coward to admit he loved her. He’d always been a coward. 

Jughead’s expression had remained unchanged. “Dad, how old is she? Like sixteen, seventeen? That’s not much older than me-"

“You think I don’t know that!” he barked back, further cursing himself as he felt a unwelcome sting in his eyes. As he scrubbed a hand over his face, Jughead stood dumbfound at seeing his father cry. He had hardly ever seen the grizzled, notorious FP Jones cry. “You think I ain’t know how wrong it is, how fuckin’ perverse it is, how god damn awful I am for lettin’ myself get close to someone as, as good as her? She is one of the only good things that this damned earth has left, and here I am, ruinin’ her.” 

He steeled himself, matching Jughead’s line of sight, as his son looked utterly surprised at his father’s uncharacteristic outburst. “But Jug, she ain’t eighteen. I ain’t gonna sleep with someone underage, I ain’t gonna go against the law like that.”

“Since when have you cared about the law?”

“’Cause we both know I wouldn’t do that to her. ‘Cause it could hurt her, and I, I ain’t gonna hurt her.” He steadied his breathing, leaning back in his chair.  
“I ain’t been the best father, there’s no gettin’ around that. But I ain’t gonna intentionally do somethin’ that I think would hurt the people I care about, Jug.”

They both were quiet for a bit. Jughead wonder just how much goodness this girl radiated to make his father respect her unwaveringly like that. 

“So what are you gonna do about it?” he asked quietly. FP let out an exhausted sigh, deflating him, as he cast a sorrowful, resigned look outside, avoiding his son’s burning gaze. 

“She’s only in town for a couple more weeks or so now,” he responded dully. “We’ve talked about it, and we know that when she leaves, that’ll be the end. For good. She’s got a bright future, and I ain’t gonna try and stop that.”

xxxx

When she came to visit on the night before she left, they talked, and talked, and laughed together, and talked some more. Reminiscing all their fondest moments together. And sat together in bittersweet silence as they reveled in each other’s company for one last night.

“It’s my eighteenth birthday today,” she had told him softly. Almost every time she spoke with him, it was softly. He’d swallowed thickly, meeting her eyes for confirmation on what she was saying. The inclination of her head had sealed it.

“Are you..” he took a couple steps forward until he could feel her body heat radiate off her. “I ain’t wanna make you feel pushed to do anythin’. I want you to be absolutely sure about what you want. I’d never forgive myself if I end up hurtin’ you, if this will hurt you.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. “You have never pushed nor hurt me, Forsythe, and I love you for that. This is something I want. I give you my word.” Her smile morphed into a coy, playful smirk, which he had suspected was to distract him from the subtle tears that had clung to her long eyelashes. “Consider it as your parting gift to me.”

Facing each other, everything appeared to be viscerally slow. He swallowed again. “Listen, before you leave, I just wanna tell you...tell you...” he trailed off, his sentence dying in his throat, unsure how to articulate exactly what he wanted to tell her.

She had rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “You have many talents, Forsythe Pendleton Jones, but Lord knows that a way with words is not one of them.”  
Pressing her lips against his, she effectively indicated for him to use his mouth for something other than poor attempts at romantic one-liners.

Every movement of theirs was slow and precise, contrasting to the rapid flurry of sexually driven movements people might have assumed they would be. They were trying to savour that one moment they would have together. That last moment they would have together. Every single revealed area of their bodies was worshiped under the careful praises of their heated palms, their exploring tongues. Each stripped off piece of clothing was treated as though they were handling a new born, gently and with the utmost care. When eventually she was lying beneath him, her exposed heat pressed tightly against his own, she had cradled his face and kissed him. Her hot, pink tongue had traced her unique and highly cherished declaration of affection against his own, unworthy lips. His unworthy body. His unworthy self. Catching her eyesight for consent, she had nodded, and he’d moved against her, taking care to ensure every stoke was tender and loving. Her tangle of short, copper locks had circled her head, in the exact imagery of a glowing halo, her entire self bare and shared for only his eyes to see. Gasps and warm moans, intimate and raw in honesty, whispered against his ear. He hadn’t known he lived for that ever so soft sound until that night. Kissing and biting her neck, moving within her slowly, encasing a peaked nipple with his lips, anything he could to elicit those sweet breathless sounds of hers that he would only hear for that one night. Then, at the height of their shared experience, she had reached a tentative hand up to her neck, and pulled that fateful, red ribbon free. 

xxxx

The next morning, just before she turned and left his life for good, she pressed something in his hand, with instructions only to open his fist when she had left. He nodded, not trusting himself to look her in the eye in fear that she would see how glassy his own eyes had gotten from unspilled tears. An adoring hand was placed on his cheek, her thumb caressing the rough skin there gently. Two tear tracks ghosted her face, her face void of the black liner and lipstick, and she’d smiled at him. Perhaps for the last time. Which was for the best. 

As she had turned to leave, leave his home, leave town, leave him, his hand had found its way to rest on her bare shoulder. She threw a woeful look back at him. “Forsythe,” she had pleaded, them both knowing she was wishing for him to make the whole heartbreak easier and to just let go. But she waited, waited for him to finalise the goodbye. He had pulled her close, cradling her precious self within his arms. Returning his tight embrace, she had buried her head of short, mesmerising curls into his chest, her arms locked firmly around his back. He smoothed her angelic tresses in her rare moment of dishevelment, trying so, so hard to ignore the growing damp patch on his shirt from her quiet crying. Even now, she refused to throw a childish fit. He wished the same could be said for him. 

After what could’ve been an eternity with her in his arms, yet also nowhere near as lasting as every fibre of his body and soul longed for, he pulled away. Tears. Fresh, freely flowing tears, showing no sign of halting. God, how much his gut twisted at the knowledge that he was making such a beautiful and pure creature, that only scum such as him dreamed to get close to, cry. 

His rough thumb ghosted over her youthful cheek, hardly daring himself to wipe her face clear of those tears. His chapped lips caringly kissed her forehead – the only area of her skin he permitted himself to allow his lips to touch now. The times of capturing her glorious lips in his and softly nipping on her neck and worshiping her glowing, exposed flesh to make her sigh with ecstasy had died with the season. She smiled at him. Heartbreakingly so, but still one of her ever so heavenly smiles. Her lips had brushed lightly against his in farewell, neither of them wishing to admit that it was indeed farewell, before turning his head to the side and whispering in his ear.

And then she was gone. It was just him, and his trailer, and his crushing shame from the past 3 months. He opened his fist. There, curled up in his palm, was her ribbon. That damned ribbon. This time, he allowed the tears to fall, clutching onto the last piece of his cursed lover, as he cried, alone, her haunting last words ringing in his head.

'You hold a piece of me, Forsythe Pendelton Jones. Take good care of it, and be kind to yourself.'

xxxx

Five years later

When he saw the familiar cream shawl, now around the shoulders of a young woman, rather than an adolescent, his breath caught. His fingers fumbled in the pocket of his damned leather jacket until he felt the smooth satin of a red ribbon against his skin. She wasn’t alone this time. His eyes cast down to the small child she was walking hand in hand with. He saw his own dark locks, combined with her serene features, as the child laughed mirthlessly at a passing butterfly. Then, they met with the same eyes he had so dearly loved and even more dearly missed. The twenty-three year old smiled, crimson lipstick long gone. 

“Forsythe Pendleton Jones II,” she greeted, treating his name as though it was a sacred text, her lips and tongue caressing each letter in his name as they had done to his skin during that fateful summer. Her eyes still held onto that same unbridled glowing life, alight with the utter devotion as they’d possessed all those years ago. 

 

“I believe you have my ribbon.”

Bonus

He wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he met her. He’d heard the rumours about his father and some rich kid, he’d heard his father’s mesmerising respect for her, both offering conflicting ideas on who she truly was. But doesn’t everyone have conflicting perspectives on every individual?

First impressions mean a lot, or so people say. Jughead looked at her, seated comfortably in a booth at the beloved Pop’s diner, sipping on a milkshake.

Interesting. 

She had that old timely charm of many of Hollywood’s leading ladies of the ‘50s. Adorned in classic pin-up styled makeup, she oozed class and sophistication, as though she could’ve held the world in the palm of her hand as its benevolent ruler. Completely the opposite of his father. She was far more...pleasant than he thought she would be. Perhaps he allowed his mind to fall into stereotypes, but the image that he had in his mind of her was some dressed up teen tart, acting and pretending that she was far more mature than she was, who was looking for a taste of rebellion by hooking up with an older man.

She hadn’t noticed him standing at the edge of her booth, while she was engrossed in a well thumbed copy of Good Omens.

“What’s a girl like you doing with a guy like my dad?”

If she was surprised to see him there, she didn’t show it. She smiled warmly at him, folding the page in her book and setting it aside. “Jughead, right?” Her tone was light, and he felt as though the diner had warmed by a couple degrees just from those two, simple words.

He nodded. This only made her smile glow even brighter. “He speaks highly of you.” 

Gesturing to the empty side opposite her, she raised a inquisitive eyebrow. “Join me for another milkshake? My treat.”

Soon, matching chocolate milkshakes were in front of the both of them, as they tasted appreciatively, Jughead silently observing the mysterious figure in front of him. He certainly didn’t expect all the soft edges and demure presence, nor the welcoming manner. Lord knows how she became associated with FP Jones. 

“I suppose you don’t think to highly of me.” Her words were heavy with...well, he wasn’t quite sure what with. If he was to stab a guess, he might’ve said anguish.  
Jughead had snorted at that, blowing bubbles in his milkshake. “Nah, it’s my dad who I don’t have the greatest opinion for right now. You’re still a minor, after all, and he knows that. It’s not right.”

She was silent at that for a bit. He could practically hear the gears shifting in her mind as she methodologically thought of a response.  
“No, it’s not right,” she agreed, lifting a hand up to subconsciously fiddle with something tied around her neck. A narrow, red ribbon, secured with a small bow.  
“However, I take full responsibility for my actions. I was the one who made the first move. I was the one who wanted to pursue something. Your father...he wanted to, I could see that clear as day, but he felt to ashamed about the whole thing. He still does.”

She sighed, not unlike how his dad had sighed nearly two weeks ago, when Jughead had confronted him about his affair. “I know what people would think of us, what the rumours say. They make it seem as though I am a silly little girl who is striving for the attention of an older man to piss off my parents. People think its wrong, and I suppose, technically it is.” She laughed a little. “Well, it will be officially wrong until tomorrow, I suppose.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

She smiled sadly at him. “I turn eighteen.” She laughed some more at his expression, at his darkening cheeks, at the mind a thirteen year old would have. “But it raises the question, doesn’t it?”

“What question?”

She spread her arms. “I’ve been seeing your father for just shy of three months, all the while being seventeen. Which is seen as dirty, taboo, wrong, pervy, take your pic. But as soon as its known that I’m eighteen then suddenly I am officially an adult, and its fine. Still a little weird in the eyes of some people, but just that one day difference shifts the perspective that what we have is actually now acceptable. I’m still the same, our relationship is still the same, whether or not we’ve actually done anything sexual. One day doesn’t change that, but then again, apparently it does.”

“Sexual?” Jughead squeaked, feeling his flushed cheeks darken. Unconsciously, flashes of R-rated images flooded his mind of this girl and his dad. He wanted to bleach his thoughts clean.

She laughed heartily at his red face, and waved a hand. “Sorry! Sorry, I forgot that it must be really weird to hear that.”

He nodded, trying to rid himself of his flushed cheeks from the disturbing image of his dad and this girl doing...well, that. “Just a little, yeah.”

Her eyes sparkled, but not unkindly. “I’ll be out of you guys’ hair soon, though, don’t you worry. The day after tomorrow, I’m leaving. Probably for good.”

Jughead slurped up some more of his nearly-finished milkshake. “He mentioned that, yeah.”

“Yeah. We both agreed that it’s probably for the best.” She sniffed slightly, trying to pass it off as a mild case of hay-fever, but Jughead didn’t miss the shine to her eyes. 

“Do you care about him though? Like, do you, y’know, love him?”

That surprised her, he could tell, and she leant back in her seat breaking his eye contact. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Suppose? What’s that mean?”

She snorted, sounding delightfully un-ladylike, and continued. “What I mean is, it’s a tricky thing, to throw around the word ‘love’. When you use it, it should be when there is no doubt in your mind. And while there is no doubt in my mind that I love your father, it also means that I need to accept the reality that I have to leave him. Most likely for good. And while that in itself is an unbearable thought, what kills me is that it’s probably the best idea.”

Jughead didn’t know what came over him when he blurted out. “Why not come back? After college?”

Her eyes snapped back up to his, shocked. “Why are you asking? Don’t you want me out the picture? I can hardly see myself as being, what, your step mother? And whose to say that he’ll feel the same way in four or five years, anyway.”

He himself wasn’t quite sure why he was asking, but he pressed on. “I have never seen my dad talk about someone with such high respect than he does for you.” This much he knew for certain. Despite what FP might’ve thought, he was an open book to his son, and that day in the trailer, when he’d seen his father cry at the prospect of damaging her, at loosing her, he knew it was father’s own way of saying that he loved her. 

“I don’t know why and I don’t understand why, but give it those four or five years, and you’ll really truly be a proper adult, then who cares what anyone else thinks?”  
He earned a smile, another one of her famous smiles. He’d once wondered if she radiated goodness, like some magical being he’d read about in his favourite novels, and he was right. She was the embodiment of every good thought the world had to offer.

Finishing up her milkshake, she left a small wad of notes to cover their milkshakes, and picked up her book. “Who knows what the future will hold for us, Forsythe Pendleton Jones III.” 

“He told you my full name?” He asked, completely aghast.

The twinkle in her eye had returned. “No, but it is exactly something your father would do. If he had to suffer with such a pompous name, then so would you.”  
Turning to exit the adored diner, she waved in goodbye. “Maybe I’ll see you, say, four or five years down the line.”

He grinned at her. “But don’t you be coming back with any half-brothers or sisters for me, alright?”

He’d been joking, but her sly grin, oddly similar to that of his father’s said otherwise. “I ain’t makin’ any promises, kid.”

She had sounded exactly like FP when she said that. Perhaps the two were more alike than the world would have everyone to believe.

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend The Red Ribbon fariytale (I believe it is a fairytale?), it should be lurking online somewhere. This is mildly inspired by it, but this doesn’t follow the storyline of the short story. 
> 
> This one shot was the result of finding many FP/OC, with said OC typically underage, and that factor hardly being touched upon. I apologise for any OOC FP Jones, or if you disliked how I wrote this story.  
> Admittedly, I am partially certain that the age of sexual consent is actually sixteen, rather than eighteen, but I didn’t feel comfortable writing a sexual scene with someone who was not legally recognised as an adult. If you felt that a sexual scene was unnecessary, I respect those thoughts. 
> 
> Also, seeing as the characters in this short fic don’t, make sure you use condoms kids. Wrap it before you tap it.
> 
> Finally, this one-shot is designed to be read outside of typical canon of the show’s antics, with the mystery of Jason Blossom not impacting this story. That being said, I have ideas on how to continue this idea into a longer story, linking into the main canon (the five years later part would have to be ignored, but it was only a short paragraph). If that sounds like something you’d like to see, then feel free to let me know, and I’ll work on it. 
> 
> Apologises for the length of this A/N.  
> Any comments, thoughts and concerns are welcome x  
> – best wishes, Alex


End file.
